Memoirs of a More Ridiculous Time
by Reichenbach
Summary: A couple in the park showing their affection for one another and a chance encounter with a man in corduroy make Rose think back on other times.
1. A Welcome Distraction

Standard disclaimers. Apologies to my beta, Rosesbud—total Postitus.

Memoirs of a More Ridiculous Time

XYZ

It was a perfect day; the leaves and flowers were returning, the grass in the park had dried out enough to sit in the sunlight in leisure and the small grassy enclave in the noisy hectic city enjoyed a variety of people partaking of the fine weather. Perfect for exercise, people watching, taking in the air, or simply being. A day which had been sorely lacking in a week of rain and wind; a day that needed to be ceased, in the tumult of weather changes leading from winter to spring, one didn't know when such a day would come again.

They weren't an old couple, by any means. He was wearing sensible trousers, a green button-down shirt and a long heavy coat, despite the warm spring weather. One ankle rested upon his opposite knee, overly stylish trainer bouncing as he flicked the seeds off of his bun, onto the path for the pigeons to pick at. His hair was a mess, and it probably took him a lot of time in the morning to make it look that wild and carefree. Appearances being just appearances, and all of that.

The woman was poking him, trying to get him to stop. She seemed to be afraid that someone would notice them, and the unique form of littering that her companion was engaged in would somehow be their social undoing. Oh, to be that concerned with appearances again.

And the woman was concerned—her hair was tied back at the base of her neck, a few strategic loose strands framing her face. It was difficult to judge her age; the heavy eye-makeup put her around late-teens, so did the rather bombastic earrings and close-fitted jacket. But the locks waving ever so slightly around her forehead and ears made her look a tad more mature. There was also the look in her dark eyes—someone who'd seen much.

Age didn't matter, though—that was a lesson taught by the world very early on. Fittingly, the young man was hard to judge as well. He seemed to be old enough to know better than to behave so in a public park. There was also a look about him that said he was old enough to know better that life was too short to care about littering, if it made some pigeons happy and prevented him from having to eat something he wasn't fond of.

He had some non-traditional job, maybe an artist or a consultant of some kind. Obviously he made enough to dress with such careful carelessness, especially with such expensive shoes. Perhaps his parents had been too straight-laced, killing themselves in the nine-to-five cubicle grind, and he was doing everything within his power to escape the gravity well of such a dry, miserable existence.

When he turned to the woman and poked her back, while slipping his tongue between the buns of the burger, pulling out a slice of pickle between his teeth, jangling it in front of her face as if she should be impressed. Men wanted praise for such silly things.

The woman scowled at the man, but couldn't hold the pose. A few seconds later, her head tilted back in unrepressed laughter. It took her a few moments to get it under control, and then she put her own sandwich down on the bench beside her (no wrapper between it and the flaking green painted wood!) and began fighting him for the burger.

He tried to dodge, she leaned across him, got her fingers into the bun and nearly ripped it out of his hand before her lack of leverage hurled her back into her seat, her backside landing firmly upon chicken, rye and honey mustard.

Swallowing an enormous mouthful of food, the young man slapped his hand on his thigh, then pointed a finger at her enthusiastically. She looked at her backside, trying to wipe the smear off of her jeans, but only managing to make it worse.

Finally, he got off the bench, tossing the remainder of his burger into the nearest bin, then held a hand out to her. The young woman got up, still concerned with her bottom, twisting around to look at it as the warm spring air lapped the tendrils of hair around her face, making her look like some sort of snaking goddess. They tried to walk off, but the young woman was far too obsessed with the appearance of her bottom, and kept trying to inspect it, which continually brought them to a halt.

The man tried to grab her ponytail, perhaps to drag her out of the park, but her leg came flying up, catching him just below the tailbone. He rolled his eyes when she complained that he was trying to rush her, and then bent over, tossing his cohort over his shoulder with one arm, causing her to squeal in both surprise and delight.

Almost at the entrance to the park, the man's other hand came up to his companion's bottom, a finger raking across the slimy mess on her jeans, then he licked it from his hand, grinning at her disgusted cries of protest.

Eventually, they got too far away to hear their commotion, but even when they were in the park, no one seemed to mind. The teenagers knew better than to say anything—they should have been in school anyway. The other lunching professionals saw it as a nice distraction, and the elderly couples simply smiled indulgently, remembering the energy of youth and the thrill of being so in love that their world consisting only of each other.

One woman, off by herself, had watched the couple thoughtfully from her picnic blanket in the shade of a mossy oak tree, a tiny small of pleasure tugging at her full lips. She was meant to be reading a novel and enjoying the time to herself, but the couple had been a much more desirable distraction than Jane Austen. They'd been just as hopeful and comforting, if not more so, as the scene played out, live, just a few yards from her lunching spot.

It had been such a long time and memories were a joy and a comfort, instead of the pain they could be when an emotional wound was raw and gaping. She missed many things, her mother's overbearing concern, and her father's kind encouragement. Her sister's ready ear and her best friend's unwavering devotion. The thought of them made her smile, however. Every now and again—such as at that moment—it made tears pucker at the edge of her eyes. She had been so blessed to have such wonderful things in her life that she should miss them so.

Realizing the sordid tale of Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy would end just the same this time as the hundred other times she'd read it, she put the book on the old, fading orange blanket without concern for holding her page. Letting out a small laugh as her thumb brushed away fresh salty tears. She must have looked silly—a young woman—a girl, by appearances, growing teary-eyed sentimental.

Yes, she missed many things. She'd had a lot of time to acquire a list of things she could no longer have. Her birthday was last week, and in this, her two hundred and third year, Rose Tyler missed and cherished one thing very most of all—having someone to be so ridiculous with.

The end.


	2. A Chance Encounter

Rose tended to judge her moods on how she felt about Jane Austen at any given moment. Today she believed that happy endings were possible. Some days she only believed they were possible for other people, or believed they were possible for the worthy, lucky or insanely rich. Other days she didn't think they were possible at all, except in the confines of Regency type romances.

She knew that kind of love was possible…it was the happy endings she was iffy on sometimes.

Putting down her sandwich, she wiped her hand on her napkin then turned the page of her hardback. The damned thing was falling apart—she'd read the book more times than any sane person ought, but she'd had a lot of time to reread Jane Austen and contemplate the nature of the happy ending. It was one of her hobbies, and far funner than contemplating the nature of evil or the nature of man. The nature of man one was a bugger because she first had to contemplate the definition of 'man.' Was this just males? Or was this man, like, all humans? Or were we including aliens in this exercise? No—Jane Austen was safer territory, even if it did bring up the topic of how she'd had her happy middle, but so far no happy ends, or endings period. Life was just funny that way.

Eyes never leaving the page, she reached for her drink glass, tongue chasing the straw for a moment until she got it, taking a huge swig of Coke float in order to wash down the turkey on rye with mustard, not mayo. It all balanced out in the end, she supposed.

It wasn't like trans-fats were going to kill her or anything.

Snorting, ice-cream and fizzy drink came shooting out of her nose, landing right on page one hundred and forty seven, just at the good part. It was far too easy for her to entertain herself sometimes, she thought as she wiped the remaining liquid from below her nostrils, willing the burning in her sinuses to stop. You'd think the milk content would keep the fizz from clawing at her nasal passages, but nope. Her luck was just like that, sometimes.

Cleaning up the book, she pushed the float away from her and looked at the other half of the sandwich. The ice cream was far tastier, and she did need to get back to the office. There might be a meeting she could crash.

She could show up uninvited, raise a ruckus, leave abruptly, and get thanked for her input. It was like wedding crashing, but with better food. God, sometimes she loved seniority.

Concentrating on finishing the float, she put her full attention into sucking frozen bits of liquid through the big straw until she was down to just foam. When she was done, she wiped her mouth with the drenched napkin, snapped her book shut and started to leave, thanking the short order cook at the counter for another fast lunch.

Instead of saying thank you, he gestured to her blouse, and she dared to look down.

Awwwwww hell.

It wasn't the big glob of ice cream she was worried about. It was the medium sized glob of mustard next to it. Oh it was SO going to be one of those days.

Her hair was longer than it had been in quite a while, all the way past her elbows at the moment. She wasn't into the blonde right now, even though she kept coming back to it—it was a very dark red. She pulled it in front of her to kind of…disguise. Bright yellow mustard on her white shirt! You'd think after a century or two she could learn how to eat without making a mess.

Looking at her bright blue jacket, she had an idea. Oh that would make meeting crashing even more fun. She could just take the blouse off and wear only the jacket—it'd cover all her naughty bits. They'd think their grand old Operations Director had flat out lost it this time. Which'd be just fine. Somehow being crazy meant less paperwork and more time in the field, for which she was grateful.

Slipping into the bathroom at the back of the greasy spoon, she took the blouse off and refastened her jacket, thankful that in all these years nothing had bothered to dip or sag.

Laughing at herself, she contemplated just how insane she was being. Leaving Torchwood for a decade or two would do her good. But every time she'd go away they'd always manage to suck her back in. Oh well, if they wanted her, they'd have to take her batty habits and all, she was bored with office life and they needed her desperately.

The man behind the counter whistled in appreciation for her solution to the problem, and she went back outside, temporarily blinded by the sunlight. Digging in her bag past her book and balled up shirt, she reached for her sunglasses, but didn't feel them.

Squinting, she rooted around for the case and didn't stop until she ran right into a hard, manly type chest. "Oh my gosh. I'm so sorry," she mumbled, still looking for her glasses. It would suck to spend the rest of eternity with eye damage because she wasn't properly protecting them from the wicked rays of the sun.

"H-hi," the man mumbled, sounding as if she was familiar to him.

Looking up, she held a hand up to her eyes to shield the worst of the sun. He didn't seem very familiar. Of course, she'd met a lot of people in the last hundred and seventy-five years or so, she couldn't be expected to remember everybody. "Do we know each other?" It was only polite to ask. She held out a hand. "Roslyn Thomas." She'd learned a long time ago it was easiest to keep her same initials. For some reason it cut down on personal confusion.

He stared at her hand a moment, then was looking at her chest. Tall fellow, sandy hair that gleamed red where the sun hit it. Tan corduroy jacket in weather that was too warm for it, jeans, running shoes and a baseball cap. He must have been an academic type. "Oh. I thought you were someone…"

Shit. He must have met her under another name. She hated it when that happened. She was awful good at excusing it though. "Maybe my mother, Rebecca? I get mistaken for her all the time." She flashed her usual disarming smile. Then held a hand to her chest in false modesty. "Oh and of course you have to see me today of all days. If you see my mother, don't tell her. I'm not sure if she'll be more upset that I ruined the blouse she bought me, or that I'm now running around like an unclothed heathen."

The man smiled, and she noticed just how round his cheeks were. He was older, middle-aged perhaps, but still had something youthful about him. "Reminds me of…" he shook his head. "Never mind. I'd better let you get on with yourself there." He nodded, tipping his hat to her in some polite gesture of a bygone era, and he stepped out of her way.

Something about it just gave Rose warm fuzzies all over. Not, like, fluffy love fuzzies. Just…nostalgia type fuzzies. A man tipping his hat to a lady? That was just—next he'd be holding a door for her. "Actually, it's not a problem. I was going back to work, but it's a nice day. Where're you going? I'll walk with you a bit."

He looked startled, blinking a few times, then rubbed a hand over his scruffy cheek. "I—I—this way. I'm looking for a friend."

She changed direction, falling into step beside him. "I just wish I could find my sunglasses. That's what I was looking for."

Digging around in his pocket, the man pulled something out of his pocket. Rose half expected it to be a stick of gum or something, but it was a pair of classic Ray-Bann sunglasses. "I don't wear 'em much," he assured her, urging her to take them.

If this man also cleaned out litter boxes, she'd have his babies. Grinning, she put them on. "God, I'm stealing your stuff and I don't even have your name."

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, shrugging. "John."

A gloriously non-descript name, and no last name. He thought she was a crazy stalker type personality, or the jury was just still out, and he wasn't sure if he wanted her to be able to look him up. "Nice ta meet ya, John."

They walked a few blocks in silence, past a pizza place and some shop that sold only Hello Kitty items (which they both shuddered upon seeing), a park and three Starbucks. Finally Rose laughed to herself.

John had a similar ironic grin plastered across his face. "You know, if someone asks for directions, and you don't know, you can just say 'near the Starbucks' and they'll nod and thank you and leave."

Looking around conspiratorially, Rose leaned toward him. "Don't tell anyone. I do that with ASDAs. I swear to god, I once saw an ASDA in the car park of another ASDA." They both had a hearty laugh at that. Rose failed to mention it was because they were building a bigger facility on the same property—it ruined the joke. "So, who're we looking for."

The man grinned. She liked his smile. "Tall-ish, my height really. Dark hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth and a smile that makes you just want to reach out and kill him." He looked in the windows of a few more shops. "He said where he was going, but I wasn't listening. Didn't even think about it till the door slammed behind him."

Figured. All the good ones were taken AND gay. OH well. The company was still good. "Your mouth is moving, but all I hear is bla bla bla," she quoted.

His joyful smile turned hollow as his hazel eyes grew round. "I…had a bit of something on my mind. Found out a friend that I lost contact with had passed away. Shouldn't have been, but it was a kick in the gut, you know?"

Rose nodded. She'd lost her fair share of friends and loved ones. "Life is funny. You can't spend time with everybody you'd like to spend it with, then that happens, and you regret like hell that you didn't call or visit sooner." Thinking about it a moment, she sighed. "You just can't do it all, you know? Keep in touch with everybody, keep on good terms with everyone—even tell everyone how you really feel." With a small laugh, she looked up at him. "Sorry. Maybe I'm philosophising too much. I am sorry about your friend, though."

They turned a corner and John seemed even less certain of where he was going than before. "How far could one bloke have gotten? I mean, he was only a few minutes ahead of me." And that was it, he'd dropped it.

Yes, whoever that person was, he'd felt very deeply for him or her. She'd give him this one. She knew a thing or two about losing special someones. "Maybe you should just go back home and wait for him. I mean—what if he's looking for you, and you're looking for him, and you're just going to be chasing each other around the entire city all day."

His grin returned. "You are brilliant, you know. He's got to come back some time, I am the designated driver, after all." She thought he might kiss her in his exuberance, but then he spun around and started marching back the way they came. "And by that same bit of logic, if he does come back, he'll just haveta wait for me, which means that I can indulge in my need for pound cake and coffee with strange and unnatural syrups in it."

Rose stopped in her tracks, wondering if this was a journey he meant to take alone, but he gestured for her to follow. "Well, Roslyn Thomas, what're you waiting for?"

XYZ

They'd both had way too much caffeine, that much was apparent by the strange looks they were getting from everyone else in the place. Rose took another long slurp off of her large Frappa-whooziewhatsit (with extra espresso—the devil had made her do it), and John spilled something dark and black down the front of his jacket while they laughed away on one of the sofas in the back. "So then, I'm asking her, I'm asking her—what happened to your shirt? Only I'm not looking at the big tear in her shirt, I'm suddenly seeing that she doesn't have any bloody pants on either. All I can stare at are her chicken legs and white arse."

John began coughing viciously into the sleeve of his coat, forcing him to put the coffee down.

Without thinking, Rose put her own drink on the coffee table and slapped him viciously on the back a few times until the hacking stopped, and he was just left with wiping the tears out of his eyes. "I didn't mean to kill you!"

Using his napkin to wipe his nose, he shook his head. "Takes a little more than an office Christmas party gone horribly wrong to do that, my dear."

Rose wiggled her eyebrows. "You haven't been to these office parties." She sighed, leaning back into the cushion behind her. "Oh man. I haven't laughed this hard in years. Well, since that one office party where they were playing pin the tail on the donkey, with real pins and absinthe. You have not seen funny until you've seen a fifty year old woman freaking out over potential implant leakage due to being punctured with a four inch sewing pin."

John held his sleeve up to his mouth again, shaking his head for her to stop. "Please," he begged, once he regained some composure. "Please stop. Or I'll have to tell you about the time I fell through a sewage grate. Only I didn't fall all the way through. It was just one leg. And my other leg's all bent behind me like this," he twisted his arm around his head. "So I didn't have the leverage to get out. And these adorable little children started beating on me with plastic bats, like I was going to break open and candy was going to spill out!"

"You're SO making that up," Rose said, shaking her cup to get the last bit of coffee out. "I don't even think human beings can bend like that."

Something playful and a bit sad twisted in his eyes. "You remind me of her, you know," he said quietly.

Rose felt the breath catch in her chest. She couldn't let it out, she couldn't draw in another. It was like being trapped. "I…" she wasn't sure what to say. That she was sorry? "It's little things that can creep up on you sometimes."

Taking the lid off of his cup, he drained the chocolate that had collected at the bottom thoughtfully before he answered. "I've been so good for so long—I guess the news wasn't unexpected, but it was still an upset. Then meeting you…"

Squeezing his hand, Rose offered a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry. You're not sure if it's a blessing or a curse."

His eyes searched hers for a moment, possibly trying to figure out how she knew so much about loss. "I don't believe in fate, and I don't believe in gods, moving us around like pieces on a chess board. So I don't know what this is." Swallowing, his hand turned, his fingers sliding through hers.

Rose couldn't bring herself to break eye contact. She saw it all there, happiness, heartache, many travelled roads. Someone like herself. She might not be able to tell him all of the truth about her, just yet—but she'd never have to lie to him. To be someone that she wasn't. "Good," she muttered. "You're just as confused as I am."

One cheek pulled back in half a smile. "Confused as all hell."

It was a very long moment finally broken by the barista coming over to ask if John was done with his plate. He nodded, then looked away. "So, Roslyn Thomas, what is it that you do, that you work in such a wild and crazy office that you make me hack away like I'm taken with consumption?"

Tugging on her jacket, making sure all of her bits were covered, Rose sat up. "Offer unwanted advice and crash meetings. The meeting crashing is actually my current favourite hobby, well, after contemplating the nature of man."

"Crashing meetings?" he asked with interest. "You seem a little young to have the ability to do that and not get tossed out on your backside."

Rose laughed. "You flatter—really. This face is the product of good genetics, the right surgeon, and enough moisturiser to drown a grown man. Seriously—sometimes I feel like—like Peter. From Office Space."

"An ancient film," he pointed out.

Holding up a finger, Rose took a deep breath. "But a classic. The worse I do my job, the more they can't get enough of me. I keep trying to leave, they keep sucking me in. Corporate black hole, meet my soul. You two acquainted? Ok, great. So mostly I just make crazy yet functional observations, and they think I'm some kind of genius."

He smiled a tad indulgently. "Have you ever thought about just leaving it all? Getting away?"

Rose rolled her eyes dramatically. "I could take a holiday at the bottom of the ocean, and they'd still find me. 'Oh, just one more thing…we have this huge problem, please save us from ourselves!' Alright. Now you know more about me than I've told anyone in years. Now spill. John isn't your real name, is it?"

The man's smile wavered, unsure whether it wanted to be a full blown grin, or a frown. "It's a name I go by, now and again." He seemed to get the accidentally implied subtext quickly enough however, because he held up a hand. "No, wait, I didn't mean it like that. I just mean—well, you know how it is. Foreign names. Just easier to go by John Smith, instead of watching everyone mispronounce the ever living hell out of your name every time they try to say it."

"Can I have your babies?"

He blinked twice, jaw slowly dropping like a lift coming to a halt. "Uhh…"

Rose started laughing. "I'm kidding. I swear. Unless you clean out litter boxes. Then I'm dead serious, and I don't care if your friend wants to join in or watch."

And they were back to staring into each other's eyes, whole conversations going on without words. Something in her life had suddenly become unconfused, and somehow that was confusing to her.

Slowly, he licked his lips. "Funny—I was going to ask if you wanted to come with me and my friend. And no, he doesn't get to participate or watch. Don't even imply that around him—he'll think you're serious."

The only way she managed to tear her eyes away was to investigate the tiny bit of shaggy blonde hair brushing the top of his ear. "Ahh. Being friends with a pervert. It's one way to make time pass quickly." She thought about it. All the time in the world, really. Wouldn't be the first time she'd dropped her life and went travelling. Why not? "Where're you two going?"

He grinned, sitting forward. "Well, home, first. His home, not my home. But mostly just happy not-here land. And then from there? Who knows. But I'm parked a few blocks this way and a few blocks that way. We can just wait for him… and I've got some explaining to do.

XYZ

They never made it that far. They'd started giggling inanely at a squirrel that was flittering to and fro like it was on crack, which lead to following it into the park on some madcap chase, during which she broke the heel clean off one of her shoes and the topmost button came undone of her jacket, freeing 'the girls.'

Before anyone in the park could notice, however, he grabbed the lapels of her coat and dragged her behind the brick building housing the restroom facilities and the first aid station.

It was there that she got her first proper snogging in ages, which lead to her first proper shagging in…well, forever. And by proper, she meant crushed up against a wall, brick digging into her bare skin while someone who's name she didn't even know gave it to her as if their lives depended upon it. Thank God for mustard spilling on shirts and serendipitous meetings on street corners.

Her…friend didn't believe in God or fate or whatever, but she was beginning to. Especially when he looked into her eyes like that, never breaking contact while they did things in public that could damned well get them arrested. Apparently she was worth getting arrested for. She liked that.

Eventually, she leaned against the wall, barely able to keep herself upright, and he leaned against her, lips resting against her neck. Both of them were sweating and breathless.

Slowly, they came back to themselves, righting each other with motions laboured by aching muscles. "I can't believe—I must be going insane," the man whispered, looking away from her, but never breaking the closeness of their bodies. "I can't believe—we never. She and I. And I just…" He sighed, resting his head on her shoulder.

Running her fingers in the hair on his neck, just below where the baseball cap ended, Rose shushed him. "It's fine. Everything's fine." She didn't regret it—it seemed impossible to think that he would too. Especially since she knew he felt something too, some attraction, something that said they should see where this led them.

He shook his head, breath under control already. "It's—it's not like me."

When he tried to pull away, Rose grabbed his hand. She was far too old to let this slip through her fingertips simply because he was uncomfortable. If it was because of the type of day he was having, that was one thing. She'd give him space and time. But if he meant to vanish off into the night, never to be seen or heard from again—well, that was just unacceptable. "It's not like me either. I can't even tell you the last time… Look. You don't believe in god or any of that stuff…fine. But there is some reason for this," she said in all seriousness. "And I'm just asking for time to find out why." She caught him under the chin with her finger, nudging a smile from him.

The day was warm, and their bodies were still pressed together, but she didn't feel terribly overheated, even for their exertion. There he had it. Even more proof that they should see where this was going. She'd lost the chance once in her life; she wasn't going to lose it again. "So. What do you say?"

Suddenly something changed in him. Even before he backed away from her, she felt the shift. It was all falling apart. She'd pushed too hard in her zealousness. "You don't sound like her. But you look like her—it's the eyes. And—and--" he shook his had. "And that's just too much. I'm sorry."

When he turned and fled, she let him, unsure of what to do. He was scared, but it was because he felt it too. Pursuing him could destroy even affectionate memories that he had of her, which she couldn't bare, even if continuing to rest against that wall would mean potentially letting this chance pass her by forever.

Slowly picking up her half-forgotten bag, she began walking away from the park—limping, really, with one broken shoe. Rose decided to leave it up to serendipity. If it was meant to be, it would be. If it wasn't—some day she'd learn to look back fondly upon John-not-John without the pain of regret for what could have been.

Right now, her relationship with Jane Austen was unclear; the condition for the possibility seemed to exist that happy endings were real, and yet even a happy middle had been denied to her in this instance.

Heading for home, instead of the office, Rose let out a deep breath, hoping for serendipity to kick in. She'd hate to think her relationship with Ms. Austen could be marred by such an event.

TBC…


	3. A Happy Middle

The Doctor refused to come out of the TARDIS, which Jack supposed was OK. He needed some time by himself, really. He shouldn't care. It had been almost three hundred years since he or the Doctor had seen her, he shouldn't care what they'd read in the public archives about Rose Tyler. He shouldn't care…but he did.

Mostly because of his overactive imagination imagining how she'd died. He could see it all so clearly—she'd have been around thirty-five, according to the year on the death certificate. Just coming into her own, making a life for herself in this place, and then…nothing. A freak accident. Not just killing her, but marring her body, so that she wasn't frozen perpetually as the beautiful woman he remembered, but turning her to something unrecognizable. Or so his overactive imagination told him.

He needed a drink or two, or ten.

Walking through the uncrowded midday streets, he didn't notice the zeppelins overhead, nor did he notice the strange, monotone and angular fashions of the people. He ignored the trees and grass lining the pavement as he went.

He wasn't even sure where he'd ended up. The sign over the door creaked a tad on its hinge, declaring itself a coffee, imported beer and cake bar. Pushing open the door, he wondered if the coffee or the cake was the totally random menu item in that three.

The place was just freakin' weird on the inside. Twilight blue tile floors gleamed in the light from the neon glowing patterns on the ceiling. The walls glowed a warm yellow. It was like something out of a trippy dream. Especially when he sat at the bar and looked at its glass surface into the lit fish tank beneath.

The man behind the bar frowned, looking him over. "You look like you need chocolate cake and a dark beer to dunk it in."

Jack just nodded, unsure of what to say. Apparently the people here had never heard of milk for that sort of thing. How hard was the cake here anyway?

Perhaps he should take some back for the Doctor. The beer, not the cake. Well, maybe the cake. He was mourning for Rose all over again, and cursing himself. He'd wanted nothing more than a fantastic life for her, and she'd died young, in an explosion while on a Torchwood mission. He must have felt that he'd condemned her to that, somehow. He'd known the man for ages…more than his fair share of lifetimes, and he knew enough to see exactly where the Doctor was heading with the self-torture thing.

The cake, when he got it, was…weird. Frozen or something. So he did what the bartender had suggested, and dunked it. It was strangely good.

It also gave him something to fixate upon, besides his thoughts of someone who'd died over a hundred and fifty years ago.

God, immortality sucked.

It just really wasn't effing fair, either, that they should manage to slide sideways through universes as a by-product of stopping the total collapse of an entire galaxy into the Space-Time Vortex, and where the hell do they end up? Not only the universe that Rose had ended up in, but a hundred and fifty years too late to do her any good.

Jack believed in God. He had to—it was the only way these coincidences could happen, and they could be so goddamned painful and cruel.

XYZ

Ways that this could get worse….

Nope. He couldn't think of any.

Sitting in the dry, burnt grass with his legs splayed in front of him, back leaning against a blue faux wooden door, he looked at his hands. This could quite possibly be classified as the shittiest day in existence.

It had been a long day, too. He'd gotten involved in something that had nearly destroyed the better part of existence in his own universe, had damaged his ship and thrown him sideways through realities and he wasn't sure how to get home. Somewhere in the midst of the emergency, he'd picked up Jack again. It wasn't as if the poor fellow didn't have his own problems as head of Earth Defense. It seemed like the only time they met up was in these situations. And now he'd gone and gotten Jack stuck here.

Then he walks out, sees the zeppelins and has a fleeting moment of excitement at the possibility that the universe had thrown him a bone for once in his long, tortured existence, only to find out he's a hundred and fifty years too late. So he'd decided to console himself by finding out how Rose had lived her life only to discover she'd died far too terribly young.

It had been so long. Two hundred and some odd years. He'd regenerated twice since he saw her last. He was a different man. And somehow, it had still almost killed him.

Then that girl…

What the hell had he been thinking?

He beat his head off the TARDIS door a few times until the ship hummed at him to stop.

She'd looked so much like Rose. Past the accent, the dark red wavy hair, the total disregard for proper dressing in society, the understated makeup and fine fluttery lashes…

It was the eyes. The girl was earthy, a lot more aware of what she wanted than Rose had ever been, and…a bit naughty. But her eyes sparkled the same. And she'd just bowled him right over. He'd run into her, and instead of excusing himself, he let her just steamroll right into his life.

He hadn't seen any mention of Rose having left any children behind. Perhaps she was a descendant of one of Jackie's other children. He'd met an employee of Jack's once, very early turn of the millennium that looked so much like Gwyneth from long ago. Even genetics seemed to be designed to haunt him, not just memories of more interesting times.

Jack would mock. Or stare at him in concern. One of the two. But he'd asked that girl to travel with them. Because she looked like Rose and made him laugh. Well, Jack made him laugh. Of course, he was usually laughing at the former Time Agent, not with him.

Still a tad warm from his earlier exertions, he lifted the navy cap from his head and wiped a hand through his thick, course hair, then resituated his hat. He was a hat man, this time around; wasn't really sure why. The hat fixation came and went.

Finally he couldn't take it any more, and he pulled off the corduroy jacket, setting it beside him on the ground, then rolled up the sleeves of his blue plaid shirt, hoping for some relief.

What the hell had he been thinking? Did he think that he could pretend it was Rose? And why was he this upset to begin with? How long had it been?

It was because he didn't like reminders.

Still. All these years and he couldn't look back fondly. And now he'd just…with some random girl that looked so very much like her…

He thunked his head repeatedly upon the door of the ship until something blocked the sunlight from beating down on his face. "Here. Eat cake." A bag fell into his lap. Cautiously, he looked up at the new arrival. "Why do you smell like sex?"

The Doctor opened up the bag and took out a plastic container. "You forgot a fork."

Jack didn't move. "It's freeze dried. You dunk it in beer. So what's the deal? I leave you alone for five minutes and you hook up with someone? No wait. Let me back up. You hooked up with someone? No wait. I have to back up still further. You--"

"Yes, Jack, thank you," he said tersely. "Thank you." Picking up the hunk of mummified chocolate smothered in chocolate, he bit into it, gnawing away until a piece broke off.

There was a bit of sadness still lingering in his eyes, but he was grinning the grin of a man with no fear of death. "No, really. How long have I known you? I was beginning to think those parts didn't work." Stepping over the Doctor's legs, he sat down next to him, pressing his back to the other door. "Would you punch me if I said I was worried about you?"

The Doctor grinded away at the cake, contemplating how it really WOULD be better, dipped in beer. A dark one. "I won't punch you. I think I went temporarily insane today. And I'm still not sure I'm well. Because…if I had it to do over, I'd do it all over again." He stared off into nothingness for a bit, then wiped a hand over his mouth. "I must be fucking insane," he whispered absently.

Jack sat beside him in silence. He was grateful for the companionship. Traci had gone home a couple of months ago, and it had been just him and the TARDIS, doing whatever it was that they did. "Rassilon. That girl couldn't have been older than Traci. She said she was older… I don't know. Twenty two, twenty three. Max." he glanced at Jack, expecting a reprimand, he supposed. Perhaps confirmation that he had lost it. "I asked her to go with us." He let that hang in the air for a moment. "She said yes. No questions asked. I could have been a serial killer for all she knew. But she said yes. Just like--"

His companion's knee nudged his leg. "And she just bought the whole time and space thing?"

Both eyebrows shot upward and the Doctor glared at Jack. "I'm not that insane, you know. Hello, intelligent, interesting lady. I'm an alien. Fancy a spin around the universe in my police box?"

"So you were just some guy?"

The Doctor nodded. "John Smith, alias for some foreign name, possibly Eastern European with too many of those letters at the end of the alphabet in the surname for comfort. We had coffee, I gave her my sunglasses." He sighed. "It was weird, it was normal. I liked it. That makes me crazy right there. Swapping tall tales in a coffee shop with a girl one gajillionth of my age. Falling—just. I liked her," he stopped abruptly.

Eyes searching the distance, the Doctor tried to figure it all out. "I think I genuinely liked Roslyn Thomas. And not just because…of who she reminded me of. I mean—she chased a squirrel with me. That wasn't too bizarre. Who chases a squirrel in the city with a grown man, and doesn't pitch a fit when the heel breaks off her expensive shoes?

"It was like…that's all there was to do. Chase squirrels and drink coffee with strange syrups in it and—and just BE." Closing his eyelids, he let his head roll around against the ship's door in discontent and self-admonishment. "So what do I do? I drag her behind the nearest stationary structure and shag the living hell out of her in a public park. Oh yeah, and then I wigged out and left her there."

Jack mulled over that for a bit. "You know, I don't care who she reminds you of. You should go find her."

A flash of terror moved behind the Doctor's hazel eyes. "No." His answer was abrupt and meant to end the conversation.

Picking up the cake out of the plate sitting on the Doctor's lap, Jack looked at it, contemplated the best approach, then snapped off a bit of a corner and sucked on it thoughtfully. "You know," he said around the food, "you are, quite possibly, the biggest sissy I know."

XYZ

Serendipity came knocking on the door at quarter past seven. She was wearing jeans and an oversized shirt, her hair wrapped up in a towel.

He shuffled back and forth uncomfortably, like a man waiting to go to his death, and when she opened the door, he thrust a modest sized bouquet of brightly coloured flowers in her face. "I'm supposed to say I'm sorry for having a nervous breakdown earlier today and…" he paused, digging through his memory. "And thank you for a lovely afternoon. And ask if you'll reconsider travelling with an obvious mental case."

Rose laughed, stepping aside for him to come in. She looked out into the hall, but didn't see anyone else, though she'd expected this mysterious friend, the one who'd obviously coached him on proper apologising protocols. "It's ok. I've had a bad day or two myself. No harm done."

Looking up from his feet, he seemed to take her in for the first time. "I can't do this. You—you look too much…" he turned to leave, but she grabbed him by the sweat-drenched collar of his shirt, now red, having been changed since their earlier encounter.

Pulling his face towards hers, she kissed him on the lips again, only pulling her mouth away once he was completely quiet. "If you want time, I'll give you time. All the time in the world. But…just don't run away from me, like this. It feels wrong."

There was a change in him when she said that, as if his brain finally started working again. His jaw locked and his teeth ground for a moment. "I'll tell you what feels wrong—you feel wrong. There's something wrong with this whole thing. And not just me being visibly insane. I don't believe in coincidence. What were you doing there today?"

Rose sighed, not sure what this had to do with anything. "Leaving the café on the corner. And I'd have completely missed you, if I hadn't gone back in to take off my blouse. So what're the odds of that?" Was she really about to get into an existential debate with him about the nature of chance? A debate that looked like it had the potential to make or break this potential relationship?

He took a step back from her, trying to put distance between them. Seemingly distracted, he looked around the sparse, open apartment, from the hardwood floors to the white stone mantle that matched the white walls. Elegant and simple was her current decorating philosophy. "Greater than two billion to one. Especially when one factors in your genetics with the odds of us being in the exact same place at the exact same time, we're getting into the trillions when we talk about all the other factors. Your laugh, your smile."

She'd had some…unique lovers in her time. This was…out there. He'd grown very cold, and she wasn't sure what she could do to clear the air between them. "What are you talking about? I go there at least twice a week. What does my laugh have to do with it? Are you quite alright?"

When she tried to put a hand to his still-sweating forehead, he pushed her arm away. "But WHY do you go there?" He stepped away from her and began walking around the whole flat, looking at the strategically placed items on the walls.

Rose shrugged. "Because I do. Why NOT go there?" This was tripping very quickly into Twilight Zone material.

He touched one picture frame, pressing his finger to the glass. "It's so real."

Frowning, Rose crossed her arms over her chest. "It is real. There's blood sweat and tears put into that bloody piece of paper. The doctorate sitting next to it contains just as many sleepless nights. What's the deal? Are you going to turn around and talk to me?"

Sliding his hands into the pockets of his coat, he turned around. "Alright. They're real. It's possible they're real. But I know one thing that isn't possible. You aren't real."

"Was all pretty damned real when you were shagging me," Rose noted dryly, looking away from him. "I don't understand what you're getting on at. So could we please skip to the part where you make your astounding—and probably wrong—conclusions?" Perhaps he WAS a bit insane.

The worst part was, it didn't diminish her attraction to him.

Shifting the cap around on his head, he began pacing purposefully through the middle of the flat. "It's impossible for you to be here. To look so much like her, to laugh like her, and be amazing like her and to not be like her. Not outgoing like she was. You're reserved, but you know what you want. You're just so different—too different. Too much the same."

Yup. Crackers. "Look, John. Or whatever you're calling yourself. I'm not going to ask how you found out where I live. I'm not even going to ask what it is, exactly, that you're accusing me of. I just want to talk this out."

She crossed to the sofa, then sat down, gesturing for him to do the same.

It took him a few moments, but he did follow, but didn't sit. He continued pacing, only directly in front of her this time. "Chance being what it is, what're the odds? The odds that I'd feel for you what I felt for her? The odds that you'd…" he licked his lips. "I don't believe in god, and I don't believe in fate. What does that leave us with?" Turning around, he pointed a finger at her. "Who knew I'd be here? I didn't know I'd be here. Unless something forced me here, in which case I'm pretty sure it wasn't a benevolent force, or I'm not here at all, in which case someone is muddling with my brain…"

Rose held up a hand. "Is this an existential crisis? Because I'm only marginally qualified--"

The man melting down in her lounge spun around abruptly, cutting her off. "Ok. So if I'm really here… wait, even if I'm not really here, someone's messing with me. The question is, which aliens is it, this time?"

He was either crackers for real, or… "Doctor?"

The sandy haired man with the baseball cap and running shoes stopped right where he was and looked at her. "Rose?"

Slowly a grin spread across her face, and she couldn't help it, she leapt up from the seat and tackled him, laughing. They both fell over, into the plush white leather chair, clasping on to each other just as intensely as they'd shagged earlier in the day. "What ARE the odds?" she asked him. "No wait, you'll actually figure them out. Come on. You've got to believe in just a little bit of fate. Just a smidge." With unsuppressed glee, she kissed his nose.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep, appreciative breath. "Maybe a half-a-smidge."

They searched each other's eyes, finding something they'd both thought lost. "Half a smidge," Rose confirmed. "God. I usually make sure I get a last name before rolling in the hay with somebody. It figures the one time I don't , it's because it's you."

He smiled, reminding her of her first Doctor. Crooked with just a dash of depreciatingly dopey. "Roll in the hay often?"

As he moved to sit up properly in the chair, and she curled into his lap, she slapped his arm. "And what's with you not figuring it out sooner? I mean, I have an excuse, you've gone and changed again. Love the academic look, by the way."

His cheek twitched. "Yeah. Conveniant excuse. Never dawned on you when I said my name was John Smith?"

Rose rolled her eyes. "D'you know how many John Smiths I've met in the last hundred and eighty years? I don't either. It was a lot. People need to really think before they name their children these things. But seriously. I even LOOK like me. What gives?"

The Doctor shrugged. "No idea. I think…I was afraid to get my hopes up. Terribly afraid of being wrong. And you are different, you know. Not just the hair." He pulled the towel off of her head, running his fingers through the dark wet strands. "Everything about you is…new. Different."

"Good different or bad different?"

"Different, different," he confirmed.

Putting her head on his shoulder, she closed her eyes. "I knew there was a reason I was like this. Not aging. Now I know why. So I could see you again." She began unbuttoning his shirt at the top.

When she got to the second button, his hand closed over hers. "Jack's here. Met up with him again a few days ago during one of those universe-ending crisis thingies I seem to get myself into every once in a while."

She grinned. "We're just getting the band back together, aren't we?" Undoing the second button, she caught his lips with hers. "All the gothic angst of a Bronte novel with the Austen ending," she whispered against his cheek.

The Doctor tried to pull her hands away from the third button, but she was determined. "We should let him know everything's ok. He'll want to see you too…"

One of her dark eyebrows arched upward. "What did you say earlier? You're the designated driver, and he'll just have to wait for you?"

Shaking his head, he dared to kiss her back. It seemed that it had taken him a handful of lives to learn that it was better to regret what one has done, as opposed to what one hasn't done. Or this new him was simply more…lecherous. Either way, she liked it. Finally he pulled away so they could breathe, and he stared at her thoughtfully. "You know, you're taking this whole immortality thing well. And I still don't know why it happened. But I can venture a bad wolf-y kind of guess about it."

Smiling gently, Rose let him fold his hands over hers, even if it stopped her from her eventual goal. Any sort of contact with him was enough for right now. "I've had a long time to adjust. And I figured out very early on… if you don't laugh, you'll cry. I guess you can see which one I chose."

He let out a contented sigh. "My brilliant Rose Tyler, even figuring out immortality all on her own."

XYZ

Later that evening, Rose got the second best snog of her life. The first had been just earlier that afternoon. This evening, however, she'd been greeted at the front door of the TARDIS with cake dunked in booze and Jack Harkness ready to ram his tongue down her throat. Quite possibly the best hello she'd ever gotten, however.

Rose was still undecided about happy endings, after that. She was so hung up on the happy beginnings and middles that she worried less about the end of it all. It was the journey she was interested in, now that this new chapter of her life was starting out.

And so an alien, a former Time Agent, a tabby named Furball and Rose Tyler took off for parts unknown, into Time and Space. Serendipity had come through in the end and it had turned out that Ms. Austen had been right about one thing—domesticity was its own bliss and adventure. Of course, 'adventure' could always helped out by having a time machine close at hand.

THE END.


End file.
